


Outside the frame is what we’re leaving out

by Craftnarok



Series: Val's [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy's working on his anger issues, Blow Jobs in a Car, Canon-Divergent Post-Season 2, Developing Relationship, Hopeful Ending, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Self-Denial, Some Mild Angst Mostly Internalised, Val's is the place to be, can be read as standalone, steve is a good dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 09:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Craftnarok/pseuds/Craftnarok
Summary: What started as a chance meeting in a diner outside of Hawkins has become a Sunday night ritual. They meet and talk and drink and make out, totally off record and without defining whatever the hell it is they're doing. It's messy, it's confusing, and it's quickly become Billy's favourite part of the week.





	Outside the frame is what we’re leaving out

**Author's Note:**

> Well here I am, crashing into a new fandom, late in the game, with porn I never intended to write and an unhealthy attachment to a deeply damaged character who I'm about to project all sorts of terrible things onto. Par for the course really. Thank you to my best friend in the world Amy for letting me jump on her Val's Diner bandwagon, and thank you to the best cheerleader and beta in the world Jackie for picking out my blatant non-Americanisms and making this whole thing work so much better.

It had become something of a ritual, meeting here at Val’s on a Sunday night, when the world was quiet and the setting sun cast a warm blanket of pink light over the world, tucking them in where the monsters couldn’t reach them. It wasn’t something they had planned - and, really, that was this whole weird fucking thing in a nutshell - but it happened twice, three times, and then before they knew it it was a habit to drive out to this place, once a week, where the rules didn’t apply and they could be other people. Except, the more it happened, the more it began to feel as though this was the only place on Earth where they could recognise themselves anymore; the no-front, nameless, under-the-skin, soul-scrubbed, honest Them.

It was the kiss that did it, Billy was certain, and the idea didn’t do much to help him put a lid on his poor impulse control. If this was what it could get you then he’d take a thousand swings and misses for that one out of the ballpark hit. And the ball was really,  _ really _ far out of the park by now. Over the fucking horizon, never to be seen again, everyone else go home. That one spur of the moment decision had turned into weekly make out sessions that he didn’t know how to make sense of except that they were fast becoming all he could think about. Here, outside of town, it felt allowed; they could sit and eat and drink, and talk about dumb shit or real shit or spooky shit or nothing at all, and then they could find somewhere quiet and put their mouths together without needing to give it a name. But only here. Only on Sunday nights.

Except this Sunday, Steve was late. The sun was setting and Val had pulled the shutter down over the door half an hour ago, shooting Billy a sympathetic glance that would have sent him flying back behind the steering wheel white hot with embarrassment and rage if it had come from anyone else. But Val had a way about her - some rock-steady, calming charisma - that put Billy at ease and made him accept her particular brand of harsh parenting with barely a single muttered retort. He was getting angry though. Angry at Steve for standing him up, angry at himself for caring, angry at both of them for never taking the time to define this thing so that he didn’t even know for sure if he  had been stood up, because it’s not like it was a fucking date night at the movies, planned by the lockers on a Friday afternoon, with popcorn and soda and groping in the back row. It was implication, off the record, purposeful happenstance, and from the outside of those blissful little bubbles it was confusing. Confusion was unnerving, and unnerved was close enough to angry that Billy could get there in a heartbeat if he felt like it.

He had just flung the six pack of cans he’d had out on the roof back onto the passenger seat and opened the driver’s side door when the sound of a car engine made him turn his head. His heart jolted at the sight of Steve’s car, and the butterflies that erupted into flight in his stomach pissed him off even more. Like he was a goddamn twelve year old girl, or some desperate pansy fuck half in love with an eager-mouthed back alley stranger who didn’t give a shit about him. Not that he and Steve had actually got further than kissing. Only in his mind. Only in those dreams that woke him up with a grunt, hard and sweaty and frustrated, obliging him to start his days with his eyes on the posters on his walls, hand on his cock, determined, useless, until his mind’s eye replaced his hand with Steve’s mouth and he was over the edge almost before he’d realised he was there. The butterflies leaked out into those moments too, and if he didn’t find a way to compartmentalise soon he was going to lose his fucking mind.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m late,” Steve shouted from his window before he’d even switched off his engine. “I had to work overtime. It was last minute. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, whatever, man, stop fuckin’ apologizing.” 

There was an instinct in Billy to grind his heel into groveling things, to take advantage of openness and smother it in the cradle, and he clenched his fists as he fought the temptation to do it then.

“Are you angry at me?” Steve said, pausing half out of his car, standing slowly as if he was caught in the path of a wounded, unpredictable animal. 

Billy licked his lips, chewing on them hard, before he breathed out carefully and said, “I’m always angry about something, Harrington. What’s new? Just...don’t fucking tiptoe around me.”

“Ok.” Steve stood motionless, looking uncertain of his footing. 

Billy drummed his fingers on the roof of his car, twitchy all of a sudden with Steve watching him. The spell of this place wasn’t working, whatever the fuck it was that usually happened when they met here. He couldn’t feel the bubble of safe, isolated companionship this time, as though the late arrival had thrown the whole thing off kilter. 

“You want a beer?” Steve said, reaching back into his car for two cans before Billy had even opened his mouth to reply.

Billy said nothing, but he took the can and pulled the tab in one fluid motion. He flicked the ring pull into the scrubby bushes under the diner window and watched as Steve dropped his back through his car window. Mr Teenage Rebellion Has Its Limits And Littering Is One. 

Steve wandered towards Billy’s car, brushing his fingers through his hair in a way that somehow managed to be both awkward and casual, and he stopped a generous arm’s length away from where Billy was standing. The gritty tarmac crunched under his sneakers as he made an abortive little movement that suggested he’d been about to lean up against the trunk but thought better of it at the last second. 

“I’m not gonna swing for you, Harrington,” Billy said, putting his elbow on the car roof as he looked Steve over. “You don’t have to stand so far away.”

“Ok,” Steve said, but he didn’t move any closer. 

Billy narrowed his eyes and tapped his fingers on the roof, beating out a familiar rhythm, centering himself. 

“I called your house to try to catch you before you left,” Steve said, another apology implied in his tone. 

“What? How the fuck did you get my number? Who answered the phone?” Billy said, turning on Steve in a flash.

“I looked it up in the phone book, how do you think? Your dad answered,” Steve said, eyes wide with confusion. He looked glad to be standing as far away as he was after all. 

“What did you say to him? What the fuck, Harrington, what did you say?!” Billy was aware that he sounded more hysterical than threatening, but he couldn’t do much about it. 

Steve raised his hands. “Jesus, relax! I just asked if you were home. He said that you weren’t so I said I’d catch you another time. What do you think I’d say to him? ‘Hey, Mr Hargrove, is Billy in? Oh well when he gets back can you please tell him that Steve Harrington said he’d have to blow him in that diner parking lot at the sweaty asshole of Indiana another night? Thanks.’”

Billy bristled, but he was deflating quickly. “Fuck you,” he said, breathless, without real venom.

“Yeah, you wish.”

There was a long pause before Billy said, “Wait, you were gonna blow me tonight?”

Steve looked him up and down from the corner of his eye, assessing him, and with a nonchalance that even Billy found impressive, he said, “The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Huh.” 

Billy took a swig of beer and tried to cover the hitch in his breath. He didn’t know what the fuck else to say, so ‘huh’ would just have to do. Whatever Steve wanted to read into it was his own business; Billy just hoped he read it right. 

“Are you, like...taking anger management classes or something?” Steve said carefully.

Billy stared at him, not dignifying the question with a response, and Steve quirked his eyebrows and looked away. 

“I’m just saying,” he went on, “you don’t exactly seem like the same guy who beat the shit out of me that one time.”

Billy fished his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket, putting one to his lips and sparking the tip into life with a flourish. It gave him an excuse to look elsewhere as he said, “You really wanna talk about that now?”

Steve shrugged. “I just remember it sometimes and it kinda throws me. Don’t you?”

“I guess. It kinda feels like two different people at this point. Like a different reality. Or maybe not. I dunno.” 

Billy paused, considering, his tongue moving against the back of his teeth as he weighed the words he’d thought but not yet had the opportunity to say out loud. Fuck it. If he had the words this time then why not just say them? He didn’t like guessing games anyway. 

“Sometimes wires get crossed and you just gotta lay your hands on someone, you know? Make ‘em hurt. Punish them for making you look too long, and get to touch them while you do it,” he said. He took another drag of his cigarette and added, “It’s some messy bullshit, Harrington. I don’t have it all figured out.”

“Right. So you’re saying you we’re so hard for me you just had to pound my face into the ground to get it out of your system?” Steve looked unconvinced, but not unamused.

Billy resisted the urge to make a comment about pounding Steve’s face again, and then he wondered why he was bothering, given the lines they’d already crossed between them. “Some faces are made to take a pounding, Harrington. I’m just glad I didn’t put too much of a dent in yours the first time round.”

“Uh-huh. You dented me good enough, thanks,” Steve said.

“Yeah, well. I already apologized. And I did get stuck with that syringe of who the fuck knows what, so it’s not like I got out unscathed. Split my knuckles open too, if it’s any consolation.”

“Jesus Christ. It’s really not.”

“Why did you bring that up? Why bring that out here? You gonna remind me of that every time I get pissed off?”

Steve shrugged again. “No. But sometimes things start to feel like bad dreams, you know? You gotta check to see if other people remember shit the same way you do in case you’re going crazy.”

Billy huffed and shook his head. “You’re not going crazy, man. You want some advice though? Turn your music up loud enough, set your weights heavy enough, and you can drown out the voice telling you that you are.”

“Wow, that sounds like a super healthy coping mechanism you got there,” said Steve.

“Yeah, thanks, Oprah.”

They drifted into silence again and Billy focused on the lukewarm beer in one hand and the dwindling cigarette that was threatening to burn the fingertips of the other. He focused on them so he wouldn’t have to focus on Steve, just for a minute, just for a respite from noticing everything about him, but then he picked up the sound of Steve’s breathing and he couldn’t unhear it; the steady rhythm of it, occasionally interrupted by a deep inhalation when Steve nearly said something but then seemed to think better of it. Once or twice he could have sworn he heard Steve huff in amusement, just to himself, quietly, and it was simultaneously a little bit awful and a little bit magnetic. He thought he swayed a bit closer to Steve each time it happened, until their arms were practically brushing, but he couldn’t say for sure when they’d ended up so close that he could feel the warmth radiating off him. Literally, at least. Metaphorically, it wasn’t exactly a mystery. It was probably Val’s fault, he decided. Everything always had to be somebody’s fault and the sheen had distinctly worn off blaming Steve for just about anything he could think of. And anyway, Billy had better excuses to waste half his time dreaming up ways of laying his hands on Steve these days.

He flicked the cigarette stub onto the tarmac and ground it under his heel, and then he reached into his pocket to fiddle with the battered paper of the packet that held the rest. The silence in such close proximity was growing unbearable, like an itch somewhere deep under his skin, a physical, crawling pressure. It was always like this for at least a little while, and it was always the part he hated most, but they never talked when they weren’t at Val’s - never even acknowledged each other’s existence - so it was hardly surprising that it took a hot minute to truly relax into each other’s company every week. 

“You know,” Steve said suddenly, jolting Billy out of his thoughts, “you’re actually more intimidating when you get quiet than when you’re running your mouth. I can’t figure out what’s going through your head.”

Billy grinned and cocked his head. “Nothing to worry about. It’s fifty percent song lyrics, fifty percent filth, generally speaking,” he said.

“Uh-huh. Sure it is. Don’t forget to leave room in there for all the cliches. Gotta be at least seventy percent cliches. Maybe even seventy-five.” 

Steve was very close. Billy leaned away some to focus on his face. Those warm brown eyes, sparkling with amusement; that ridiculous hair getting in their way; the little dark moles peppered across his skin; those lips that Billy knew were soft as any girl’s and far more enticing.

“You wanna get in my car?” Billy said.

“And go where?” Steve said. 

He looked confused, and Billy could have torn his hair out over how endearing it was. 

“I mean,  _ you wanna get in the backseat of my car?”  _ Billy raised his eyebrows.

_ “Oh. _ Yeah, ok.” 

Billy’s stomach did a somersault and he breathed carefully against the sudden tightness in his chest. He was excited, he really was, it just felt like he was toeing up against the edge of a precipice, the ground unsteady beneath his feet. 

As he opened the car door and tipped the front seat forward, Billy scoured the parking lot, just to check one more time that they were truly alone in the failing evening light, and then he gestured for Steve to climb in first. 

“Gentlemanly,” Steve said, leaving his half empty can on the tarmac beside the car and folding himself into the back seat carefully.

“I just don’t want you slamming my door behind you,” Billy replied, clambering in next to Steve, settling his own can on the floor, and shutting the door with a resounding clunk. 

The space was cramped and warm and, though it had been his idea, Billy found himself at a loss for what to do next. The feelings he was only just learning to put names to were heavy and stifling even with ten miles of open road and a whole horizon’s worth of blue sky sprawling out in front of him; in the confines of the backseat of his car, with Steve so close he could touch him - and with that being kind of the point - it felt like there wasn’t enough air for him to catch his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Steve watching him, one hand back in his hair, the other pulling at the seam on the side of his jeans. He was shuffling his feet on the floor, trying and failing to get comfortable in the small space. He looked about as tense as Billy felt.

“Can I move that seat?” Steve blurted, already leaning over as he asked the question and fumbling with the seat in front of him until it acquiesced to his pushing and prodding and, folding forwards, slid towards the dash.

“Careful!” Billy snapped. “You scratch the leather and I’ll pull your head off. Be gentle with her.”

“Jesus, you wanna make out with the car instead? I can leave you two alone if you wanna fuck the exhaust,” Steve said, sitting back down with a graceless thump and relaxing his long legs in the new space. 

“Get bent, Harrington. There’s still bloodstains on the leather from the last time you were in my backseat,” Billy said, gesturing with his thumb towards a spot between them that he knew full well would look like any other bit of leather to Steve’s eyes. Billy knew where the stain was though, and that’s what mattered. 

Steve made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and an outraged choke. “Man, that was your fault!”

“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t mess up my baby.”

“You’ve always gotta have the last word, don’t you? God, you’re an ass-”

Billy cut Steve off with his mouth, lunging forward in a way that made Steve tense up. But then his hands were on Billy’s face, in his hair, thumbs caressing the sharp lines of his jaw, fingers smoothing over the skin behind his ears, where his hair was softest, and Billy felt utterly pliant against him. It was that rarest of sensations, one that Billy had, until quite recently, been a stranger to: the feeling of being both vulnerable and safe at the same time. That’s what Steve Harrington had become to him. What a mad fucking world Indiana had turned out to be.

The thought of anyone else they knew seeing them like this, seeing him, knowing that this was the truth of him, hidden so far below the surface he could barely look it in the eye...it was terrifying, mortifying, and just a little bit thrilling. This was what Billy craved, every moment he wasn’t in this desolate, shithole diner parking lot. Every moment he felt a situation slip out of his control, every moment he leaned too hard on the furious, deliberate carelessness that had insinuated itself so far into every corner of his personality that it was inextricable from whoever he was underneath, he wished he was here so that he wouldn’t have to feel so goddamn afraid and so goddamn angry.

Steve’s knee pressed hard into Billy’s thigh, their legs awkward and in the way, but it was a grounding sensation that Billy was grateful for. With any luck, he thought, he’d have a pretty, blushing bruise tomorrow morning, to act as proof that this had been real. He pressed his leg against Steve’s kneecap harder to help it along. His hands were fisted in the front of Steve’s shirt, somewhere closer to violence than tenderness, and with a concerted effort he relaxed them, his fingers already stiff and unyielding. 

Steve pulled away from his mouth, his gaze following his fingers where they trailed across Billy’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, the stubble in the soft dip of his cupid’s bow. Billy held still under his attention, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady as his heart thundered behind his ribs and his skin flushed. He could feel the prickle of sweat between his shoulder blades, his jacket as heavy and claustrophobic as a comforter in the close heat between them. He grabbed the zip, hesitated, and then tugged it, pulling the jacket off and throwing it in the direction of the drivers’ seat without a glance. 

“Holy shit,” Steve said. 

His gaze raked down the length of Billy’s body where a crop top exposed a good six inches of his stomach. It was an experimental look, even for Billy, and not one he’d been willing to leave on display for all the dregs of society who tended to wash up at Val’s, but given Steve’s reaction he was inclined to call it a success. It gave him a surge of courage that felt close to madness.

“Since when do you wear crop tops?” Steve said, eyes still trained firmly on the skin just above Billy’s waistband. 

“Since I figured you might like them,” Billy said. 

He knelt on the seat, hand creeping up Steve’s bicep, and then he swung his leg over Steve’s lap and straddled him. 

“You do like it, right?” he added, as he got comfortable. Steve’s thighs were firm and warm under his own. 

Steve nodded silently, his hands hovering over Billy’s legs. Slowly he set them down, stroking up the length of Billy’s thighs, thumbs brushing perilously close to his crotch before they settled on his ass. Steve's hair was in his eyes, and Billy reached out to comb it back with his fingers, almost startled that he was allowed to, that this wasn’t a dream. 

“You ok?” Steve said, watching his face.

“Uh-huh. Are you?”

Steve smiled and leaned forward to kiss him again. He always seemed so steady, always so ready to roll with whatever Billy threw at him. And thank fuck for that, because Billy knew that, for all his bluster and confidence and charm, he would never have found himself back here if he thought that Steve needed any kind of convincing. Billy could do that - he had done that, often and easily - but this was something else entirely. 

He broke away from Steve’s mouth, trailing his lips along his jawline, kissing down to the little moles on his neck, wondering if he was imagining the jump of Steve’s pulse against his tongue. Carefully, he slipped his fingertips under the waistband of Steve’s jeans, just a little, just edging up against the boundary he was so desperate and so afraid to cross. His knuckles brushed against the soft hairs low on Steve’s belly and he made a silent promise to kiss every inch of skin below his belly button just as soon as he could find the courage to get there. 

Steve’s hands were burning through the cotton of his top, the webs of his thumbs cradling the curve of Billy’s shoulder blades as closely as if they’d been cut from the same stone. And still Billy needed to be closer to him; wanted it more than anything else in the world.

He nipped Steve’s neck gently, and putting his mouth to his ear he murmured, “I need you to touch me. Please. Put your hands on me.”

“My hands are on you.”

“No, I mean,  _ on me _ on me.”

Steve leaned back to study his face, pupils wide in the dark of the gloaming, and Billy flushed under his attention. To ask for what he wanted so openly, with no front to hide behind, no space to pretend he was anything other than desperate and fixated and ruined...it was the most naked he had ever felt. 

Slowly, Steve slipped his hands under Billy’s top, fingertips brushing as light as feathers, and Billy’s skin pulled so tightly into gooseflesh that it ached. He shuddered. 

“Are you cold?” Steve asked quietly.

Billy shook his head, curling his fingers into the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” Steve said, trailing his fingers across them where they prickled on Billy’s chest.

“Yeah,” Billy breathed.

He settled himself closer to Steve again, trying to look as though he was more in control than he felt. Watching his face, leaning in too close to focus, he licked Steve’s lip softly, just to see what he would do. Steve closed his eyes and caught Billy’s bottom lip between his own, and then he bit down on it hard enough to sting. Billy jolted in his lap, cock twitching, and he felt Steve smile against him. 

“I already told you, don’t cream your pants,” Steve murmured.

Billy laughed breathlessly, kissing him again, wishing his heart would stop jack-hammering against his rib-cage quite so hard. It felt like there wasn’t enough space alongside its frantic beating for him to catch his breath. Steve’s hands smoothed down his back, settling again on the curve of his ass, pulling him closer as Steve pushed up against him. They were both hard, pressed up against one another, just a couple of layers of denim between them. Billy pulled away with a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation. It was all too much. Much too good and much too much. He knew he was blowing hot and cold, knew he was infuriatingly predictable in his unpredictability, but he didn’t know how to stop it. One minute he wanted to press every inch of his skin against Steve’s, wanted to wrap himself around him, fold himself into every corner of his life, and never let go, but the moment it felt as though he was losing control that ever-present instinct to turn tail and run clawed its way up his spine, icy cold. 

With a shaky kiss, he inched backwards and slid his hand in between them, resting it on Steve’s stomach. He breathed in deeply, willing his fingers to stop trembling, willing Steve not to notice, and reached down to pop the button on Steve’s jeans.

“Can I?” he asked, fingers tugging on the fly.

“Fuck, yes.”

The whirr of the zip was loud between them. Steve watched as Billy slipped his hand inside his underwear, wrapping his fingers around his cock without hesitation. 

“Jesus,” Steve murmured, and he buried a hand back in Billy’s hair, fisting it around sweat-damp curls. 

Billy kissed him, slow and gentle, his hand keeping still apart from the sweep of his thumb over the slick head of Steve’s cock. With a twist of his wrist he started to stroke up and down, and he pulled away from Steve’s mouth with a wet noise so he could watch his face. The little twitches; the flush he swore he could see creeping up his cheeks, even in the low light; the way his mouth moved, his tongue wetting his lips, the corners tightening as he swallowed the gasps that threatened to turn into moans; the little inclinations forward, searching for Billy’s lips and then changing his mind and leaning back again, all his focus on Billy’s hand and no room for anything else. 

The air was thick between them, pressing closer with every passing minute. Steve’s t-shirt was sticking slightly to his skin, bunching up where Billy’s hand pushed it upwards with every stroke. But despite the heat that threatened to leave Billy lightheaded, he felt strangely unburdened and calm. The situation was entirely in his hands, in the most literal sense, and so far the sky hadn’t collapsed down on him for simply daring. He had Steve Harrington desperately clinging to him, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, and outside the confines of the car the world kept spinning as though nothing had changed at all. He felt brave again. Slipping his free hand under Steve’s t-shirt, Billy dragged blunt nails down his side, and Steve jolted so hard he almost lifted them both off the seat. 

“Wait, wait,” he panted, grabbing hold of Billy’s wrist, his hand slick with sweat, “I’m gonna- unless you want me to make a mess of your seat again then you’ve gotta take it easy.” 

With one final feather-light stroke of his fingers, Billy pulled his hand away. “I could always…” he trailed off, clambering off Steve’s lap and sliding down between his knees. 

He looked up and raised an eyebrow, a silent question, and waited for Steve to reply. So much of his time in Hawkins had been spent blazing across boundaries, personal and otherwise, with never a thought towards asking permission. Steve’s boundaries in particular he’d been quite fond of violating. But not here. Not with this. 

Steve studied his face, looking for something Billy couldn’t identify. When he found it - or perhaps when he found its absence - he nodded. 

It took both pairs of hands to work Steve’s jeans and underwear down lower, both of them shuffling awkwardly in the cramped space. Billy’s mind was racing as he found himself at eye level with Steve’s cock, very real and very hard, and he was frightened, absurdly, that he might be so focused on remembering every detail that he’d forget to just appreciate the moment. He reached for Steve’s hand, twisting their fingers together, and as he leaned forward and put his tongue where he’d been longing to for months Steve tucked his hair behind his ear, his touch devastatingly gentle. With a fluttering sense of horror, Billy realised that there were tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, but trying to pinpoint why would have been a distraction he couldn’t bear. He squeezed Steve’s hand harder and sucked the head of his cock into his mouth as an excuse to screw his eyes shut and focus on the task at hand. Steve gasped quietly and stroked the back of his neck, fingers slippery against his skin. 

It was beautiful, having Steve in his mouth: the warmth of him, the hint of sweat on his skin, the slick slide of his precome on Billy’s lips. It was everything he could never have imagined. He sucked him in further, fingers twisting round the base where his lips couldn’t reach. The stretch of his jaw and the strain in his tongue grounded him, along with the burn in his knees where they pressed into the unforgiving floor of the car. 

Steve’s breath hitched above him, more of those little gasps and moans stifled out of habit. Billy wanted to carve those sounds inside his skull; concentric vinyl rings that he could play over and over again, forever. He was aching to touch himself, but he slid his free hand back under Steve’s shirt instead, scratching against the soft skin of his belly just to see if it would have the same effect as before. 

Steve jolted in his seat again, hands gripping Billy’s shoulders, and he keened high in his throat like a girl. Billy laughed softly, pulling back so that only his hand was on Steve's cock, stroking lazily.

“Something funny, Hargrove?” Steve mumbled, smiling and unconcerned, his hands settling back into Billy’s hair. 

Billy smiled at him, all teeth. He was aiming for wolfish, or even smug, but it was radiant happiness that he felt pouring out of him as clear as day. He suspected Steve could see the lack of artifice, see the honesty of a boy set free, just for a moment, just with him, and Billy found that there was an unlikely comfort in sharing that truth. 

Steve stroked his face gently, smiling back at him, and Billy finally took the chance to bury his face in his stomach, kissing the skin below his belly button wetly, revelling in the feeling of Steve’s cock brushing against his jaw, leaving a cool, damp trail, before he sucked it back into his mouth and set to work again.

He couldn’t have said how much time passed, but the ache in his jaw was building and the sounds Steve was making grew more desperate and ragged, and Billy forgot to even think about enjoying the moment he was so lost in living it. He shoved his free hand under Steve’s ass, grabbing the waist of his bunched up jeans and pulling him closer, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard. 

“Oh shit, oh god, Billy, I’m gonna-” Steve’s voice cut off in a guttural noise as he came. 

Somehow it took Billy by surprise, and as he let Steve’s cock slip out of his mouth too early a hot trail of come streaked across his swollen lips. Steve’s gaze was fixed on him, panting, silent, his eyes so dark they looked almost wild. 

Billy knelt still for a few seconds and then, following a brief and silent deliberation, he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with his dry hand, sucking his fingers clean for good measure, and Steve’s watching eyes practically rolled back into his head. But as he leaned over to grab his can of beer to wash his mouth out with the last dregs, Steve reached out to stop him. Wrapping his hands around Billy’s face again, those long fingers firm but gentle, he coaxed him up towards him.

“C’mere,” Steve said, leaning forward to kiss him.

Billy tensed, pulling backwards, reaching for the can again. “Wait, hold on, just let me-”

_ “C’mere,” _ Steve repeated, soft and imploring.

Billy relented, and Steve pulled him into a kiss, slow and open-mouthed. Billy shuddered against him, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Somehow it was more intimate than anything that had gone before. He thought he might actually be blushing, which was absurd beyond reason and he hoped desperately that Steve wouldn’t notice. 

“You ok?” Steve said.

Billy wiped his mouth again on his forearm, looking away from the unabashed tenderness that was written across Steve’s face. 

“I’m good,” he said, “except my knees are killing me.”

As Steve did his jeans back up, Billy levered himself up with his hands heavy on Steve’s thighs, squeezing them hard enough to earn him a gasping laugh. 

“You want me to…” Steve trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Billy’s jeans, which were, as ever, so tight that they left little to the imagination.

“Nah, I’m good,” Billy said, arranging himself across Steve’s legs and the backseat with more grace than should really have been possible in the cramped space and with a raging hard on.

Steve stared down at him where he lay, head in his lap. “C’mon, I want to. It’s bad etiquette not to.”

Billy snorted as he lit a cigarette. “When the fuck have you ever seen me give a shit about etiquette, Harrington? This isn’t a Debutantes’ Ball. Just let me...bask in the moment, or whatever.”

“Aren’t your jeans cutting off your circulation? I don’t know how you even get into those things in the first place.”

“Oh yeah, they’re snug right now,” Billy laughed. “But it’s fine, honestly.”

“Is this some weird self-punishment thing you’re doing?” 

There was a layer of frustrated accusation in Steve’s voice that cut through the relaxed atmosphere like a knife. Billy’s smile faltered and his shoulders tensed. 

“Let it be, Steve. Don’t ruin this. I’m happy. That’s enough, for now.” 

He held the cigarette up in Steve’s direction, imploring him to take it with a cool look and his practised air of insouciance. There was a beat of silence, and then Steve took it from him with a sigh, brushing their fingers together slowly, deliberately, single-handedly defusing the tension with that one casual touch. 

“I don’t smoke, you know,” he said, lifting the cigarette to his lips anyway and inhaling like someone who definitely knew what they were doing, no matter what he said.

“Uh-huh. Well, crank the window open while you’re definitely not smoking. And don’t drop ash in my hair. There’s about a gallon of Aqua Net in there, I’ll go up like a firelighter.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Steve muttered.

“Hey, I just sucked your dick, Harrington. Don’t get all bitchy before the afterglow’s even worn off. You gotta be nice to me,” he said, wriggling his shoulders to get more comfortable against Steve’s thighs.

“I am nice to you, asshole,” Steve said.

Billy grinned and took the cigarette from where Steve held it out far away from his hair, looking up through his eyelashes as Steve smoothed a curl across his forehead. 

“Yeah, you are,” he said. “Why else d’you think I keep coming back here?”

“Uh, because I’m devastatingly handsome and you’ve been obsessed with me from the moment you first set foot in Hawkins?” Steve said.

“That too,” Billy conceded. 

“More people should be nice to you.”

“I can only handle one dick at a time, man.”

“C’mon, Billy. I’m serious,” Steve said.

He was plucking at a loose thread on the crop top, and Billy batted his hand away, pushing it back up towards his hair. 

“I know you are,” he said. “You’re being too generous. I think maybe you’re forgetting about how I don’t deserve it, and honestly I’m not sure I want it.”

“You want it when you’re here,” Steve murmured, watching his own fingers as he wound them obligingly back into Billy’s curls.

“Yeah and that’s plenty. Whatever the fuck this is it’s good, but I don’t need my whole life turned upside down by people being nice to me and expecting the same in return,” Billy said, with genuine disgust. “Sounds like a lot of effort for some superficial bullshit to me.”

Steve scoffed. “Sure. ‘Cause nothing about your usual act is superficial bullshit.”

Billy shrugged. “Maybe so, but I know all the moves. When I escape that shithole town for good maybe I’ll reinvent myself again, but not now. This side of me’s for you and you alone,  _ King Steve,  _ so you’d better appreciate it.”

“Prick.”

“Princess.”

“What happened to ‘King’?”

“You just got demoted.”

Steve smiled, but there was a serious, contemplative look in his eyes that told Billy there was more painful sincerity just waiting to pour out of him, mood-killing be damned. Billy tried to brace for it without looking like he was.

Steve cleared his throat. “Listen, I… Don’t put it all on me, ok? I mean, not like I don’t want it, not like that, because I do, but just...I shouldn’t be the only good thing in your life. I shouldn’t be the only outlet for this side of you. No matter what you think, you deserve more than that, and I don’t want you to fly off the rails if I can’t be enough, because I won’t be. Not all the time.”

Billy rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to argue, but Steve cut across him.

“Could you for once not argue with me? Just think about it, ok?”

“Whatever you say, baby,” Billy drawled. 

Steve narrowed his eyes, dissatisfied. 

“You should become a shrink, Harrington. You could be raking it in. But you can stop psychoanalysing me now.” Billy said it lightly, but there was a hard line running through it that he really hoped Steve wouldn’t choose to ignore.

“Alright. I’m sorry. I’m done,” Steve said, settling back against the seat and winding a curl tight around his forefinger as he took the cigarette back again. “What the hell do you know about Debutantes’ Balls anyway?”

“What?”

“You said this isn’t a Debutantes’ Ball. What would you know about those?”

“You should go on  _ Jeopardy! _ with a memory like that. Talk about a left field question,” said Billy.

“Uh-huh. You’re stalling for time.”

“I don’t know shit about ‘em. Just...my mom, she had some weird interests. She loved all that crap. I think if I was born a girl she’d have dressed me up like a five dollar whore and entered me into pageants as soon as I could walk.”

“Where is she?” 

“Not here,” Billy said with a tone of finality. He took the cigarette from Steve, took one last deep drag, and flicked the butt out of the open window above his head with panache. “You try to diagnose me with mommy issues too and I really will kick you out of my car.”

They stayed slumped together for a long while, talking a little, enjoying the quiet more, until the last light of evening had truly, fully faded into night and they couldn’t see much of anything anymore. Billy almost dozed off once or twice; the rhythm of Steve’s fingers working through his hair, over and over, lulling him towards sleep. He knew how to be the centre of attention, spent half his life climbing over people looking for it, but this was something he hadn’t experienced for a long time. Not since his mom- he stomped on that thought the second it raised its head. Nobody else belonged in this space. Just the two of them.

He started slightly when Steve lit up the face of his watch to check the time. 

“Shit, I need to head off. I gotta open up the store first thing tomorrow,” he said, but he made no move to oust Billy from his lap. 

“Back in the short shorts so soon?”

“They’re not that short,” said Steve.

“Sure. We had Scoops in California, I know what the uniform looks like. I’ve built up quite a pretty picture in my head. Maybe next week you can keep the uniform on. Or maybe just the hat.”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no.”

Billy laughed. He sat up, feeling ungainly, the space still far too small for both of them and his limbs stiff from lying in one spot for so long. As he climbed out of the car, stretching his back and holding the door for Steve, his mind was already on the drive home and the week ahead. Steve brushed close past him, rolling his shoulders, and with a smoothness that made Billy’s stomach flip he put his hand on the curve of Billy’s back and pulled him into a kiss. 

“See you next Sunday?” Steve said, so close Billy could feel his breath on his lips.

Billy nodded. “Mhm. If you’re gonna be late again, don’t call my fucking house,” he said, and he pecked Steve one more time to punctuate the point with teasing softness. 

Billy took the long route home. He rolled his window right down, the wind blowing his hair into complete disarray, but who the fuck could care when Steve’s hands had touched every strand of it, combed through it and pulled on it as if he owned it? The breeze cooled the damp of their mingled sweat on his skin. He felt blissful and giddy and a little overwhelmed, and he focused on picking out the tiniest details of those brand new memories to hold up as proof in sharp relief that this was a good fucking thing, a perfect thing, and it was just the beginning. He was happy, and maybe, just maybe, he deserved to be. 


End file.
